Harmless: The 67th Hunger Games
by shel-belle.WRITES
Summary: Seneca Crane has been promoted to Head Gamemaker. Everyone's expecting it to be great; for Crane to prove himself. It does seem so peaceful though. Huge beautiful insects and a virtual candyland arena - a child's dreamland. Poor Seneca, he won't last very long.
1. D1: Shine Fairflight: Jessica

**A/N: This is NOT an SYOT. It's sort of like a commemoration thingy to my wonderful classmates who I'll probably rarely ever see again after graduation. I love you guys and all that other stuff, and this is _not _a way of revenge by any means. Yay, I get to kill you all (except for one tribute, of course) in brutal and heartless ways. I gave a lot of thought to your districts and _names _(gosh, I even searched the meanings and origins of most of them); be grateful. I tweaked your personalities a little for this fic, just so you know. Anyway, we have only 22 people in our class and I need 24 so I brought back Clementina and Christian. And the name guide thingy will be on my profile labeled as 'The Tribute Name Guide Thingy for 'Harmless'. Hopefully, this will be completed by the time we graduate.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games Trilogy. Suzanne Collins does. **

* * *

Shine Fairflight  
District One

.

..

...

"You'll volunteer?"

Her voice is barely a whisper, broken with weary acceptance. Guilt claws at my heart but I ignore it stubbornly.

"Of course." She nods, closing her eyes to hide the improper tears that spring up. "Mother, I _need _to get out of here! It isn't right, you do know that...don't you? This isn't normal for a father to beat his family and have s-se- ch-children with women of his own blood and kill the innocent little babies. When I win, I promise to make it better. Our life will be perfect. Please..."

"I won't tell," my mother says softly, embracing me fiercely.

"Thank you," I breathe. "I love you, Mommy. This isn't to punish you, only him."

"Yes, you've told me before." She laughs, the sound light, airy, bell-like, and beautiful as always but her dark orbs are devoid of any humor. I shiver. "It hurts me, too. Anyway, let's get you dressed."

"I can dress myself," I say automatically, reaching for the thin, translucent white dress that my mother laid out.

She reaches for it simultaneously, yanking the fabric gently so as not to tear it. "Let me. It'll be my last time before you go."

"Alright."

I allow her to undress me and spray the tan concealer over my bruises, briefly blowing on them to quicken the drying progress. Mother rubs on the edge of the goo gingerly to blend it into my caramel, pink-scarred skin. She begins to lower it to my head and tells me to do the rest. About half an arm is in before I abruptly toss it to the floor.

"Shine!" Mother scolds me, voice rising an octave in disapproval, "if you don't like the dress, then tell me! There's no need to tear it!It could've ripped, stained, stretched, stolen -"

"Mother," I cut her off, sounding much more impatient than I'd meant to.

"Shine Cornelia Fairflight! I don't care that you're running off to your death; you do _not _raise your voice at me!"

I tap my fingers impatiently against the crook of my elbows, arms crossed, and roll my eyes. "Yes, Mother. I understand."

She sighs. "That's always the best I ever get out of her. Maybe Prince did get something right."

"_Mother_!" I cannot_ believe _she said that! How dare she compare me to _him_.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." Her perfect hands swat at the air, dismissing her statement. "Just pick a dress."

I open my wardrobe and carefully select a see-through dress that ends high above my knees. After that, I choose a thin, scrimpy lingerie set that Prince bought me. It's soft expensive silk that has only been worn twice, a hot pink that stands out sharply against my tanned skin. Up close, it makes the blended scars brighter but through the sheer fabric of the dress, they're hardly visible. The silk is cut into minuscule triangles and held up by rounded perfect strings.

"Shine, _think_, honey. You can't parade around the stage and tribute train virtually naked. Not that you don't have a beautiful body."

"_You _think, Mother. Today will be the last time I ever see Prince. Can you blame me for wanting to taunt my..." I hesitate on the word. "F-father?"

Mother and I never address Prince as "father", "husband", "my..." anything. Everything was forced; we had absolutely no consent.

"It seems like you're going too far. Why not just strip naked and oil yourself?"

I press my lips together and stare at her condescendingly.

She glares at me.

We don't say a single word to one another even as we separate, me to the fifteens', her to the onlooking crowd of those ineligible for the reaping.

I remember to sway my hips exaggeratedly and yawn, letting my body droop slightly in feigned sleepiness. Prince always tells me that that reminds him of time in bed and we always have a very rough night when I yawn. I catch his eye and yawn again, blowing a fake kiss to him.

Prince licks his lips and not so subtly crosses his legs. He begins to urgently mouth something to me.

I don't catch his words because I ignore him, turning away and shaking my hips again as I leave.

* * *

"Welcome to the Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games!" Temina Wildflower chirps. She beams at us with her gem-studded teeth and passes the microphone to the Mayor.

"There once was a place called North America..." drones the Mayor, repeating the Treaty of Treason slowly in his familiar monotone. I glare at him impatiently, willing him to read faster. He doesn't. So when Temina dips her hand in the glass ball, I can't help screaming.

"I VOLUNTEER!"

And _then_, I begin to walk to the platform, knowing that I reversed the correct order. I giggle confidently as I bounce up the steps, looking expectantly at Temina.

She looks flustered. "I d-didn't even call out the name..."

Very belatedly, I feel embarrassed. I don't allow myself to blush. Instead, I roll my eyes in false exasperation. "I would've volunteered anyway. What does it matter?" I force another yawn for Prince's sake.

Our Capitol escort nods briskly, retaining her control of the situation. "Your name?"

"Shine Fairflight." I glance at Prince who is turning an interesting shade of red. Mother has a bored, polite expression on her face but her ears are pink. She's mortified. I pretend I don't notice and smile down at my District.

Temina pretends that all this is normal and strides to the boys' ball. She swirls around the papers and selects one, calling out someone from the sixteens'. He is quickly replaced by a volunteer. The volunteer is tall, thin but well-muscled, dark skinned, and arrogant. As Temina calls for volunteers, he races to the stage and announces his name. All the while, he never breaks eye-contact with me, his black eyes filled with a silent challenge. _You see? _This _is how it's done, stupid, _he seems to be saying.

I glower at him.

"And I present to you District One's tributes: Shine Fairflight and Gilt Goldwater!"

She motions for us to shake hands. I dig my nails into his flesh, and he squeezes my hand with unnecessary force. I make little bleeding crescents in his russet colored skin, and he almost breaks my hand, grinning when I squeak in pain. I hate him. I twist my hand so one of my rings scratches deep into his skin. It bleeds. He narrows his eyes but before he can retaliate, Temina Wildflower whisper-shouts for us to face our audience as the anthem plays. I do as she says, and find myself gazing into Prince's hate-filled eyes. I draw in a sharp breath but quickly release it and paste on a smile to his general direction.


	2. D1: Gilt Goldwater: Ismael

**A/N: I miss you guys... And yes, the deadline has been changed to before I die and if I happen to die tomorrow, so not my fault.  
This chapter came out very unnaturally but I smoothed it out to have it flow better. I think I have Gilt's personality pretty well done, seeing how long it took me. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games; Suzanne Collins does. **

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Gilt Goldwater  
District One

.

..

...

"Reaping in half an hour. Dress nice," Father says curtly, watching me cleaning some blood off my sword. Today, he stayed and saw us train. He didn't comment, only kept his face impassive and hard.

"I won't forget." My tone is also less than polite, bored and indifferent.

He gives a single nod and strides away in the opposite direction, the smaller section of the training center.

I stare after his retreating back until it disappears completely from my line of vision. My gaze swivels around slowly and pauses at the mirror as soon as I know for certain that I am alone. I then saunter to my gorgeous reflection and smirk at it, satisfied.

"Ooh. _Sexy._"

I laugh and flash another glance at my beautiful self. I rip off my clothes and stare at the perfect, tanned, and nude body with something close to infatuation. The silver-rimmed mirror accurately, but in reverse, repeats my every action. Wink, wink, smirk, smirk, pout, pout, flex, flex, eyebrow raise, eyebrow raise, glare, glare, scowl, scowl, kiss, kiss, swoon, swoon...

"I'm sexy and I know it!" I shout, knowing that the center is soundproofed so no one outside can hear me. It's pretty late so everyone probably left and the few others are all the way across the hall...shit...

I hear laughter but no one comments. At least I don't hear them if they did. And then suddenly I do.

"Your boy stupid?" someone howls.

"SHUT UP!" I roar, ears burning with anger. I don't bother moving except for clenching my fists. "You're just _jealous_!"

I get no reply.

* * *

_Wear something __nice_, Father's words echo through my head.

I didn't bother changing anything other than my sweat-soaked shirt. I'm beginning to regret that now. The sun is shining down on my slightly greasy, sweating face and making it reflect all light in a very unattractive manner. I wince. After a couple of seconds considering my options, I decide to race home. So I do. I force myself to take a really quick shower and put on some definitely clean clothes.

By the time I make it back to the square, the reaping has almost started. The lines are already filled out and people are beginning to stop talking. After I register, I easily make my way to the front, where the other eighteens' are. I notice some of them are lowly muttering out threats. They are my competition. I can outrun any of them, all of them, without even trying. Not to brag, but I am the fastest person I know - and I know a lot of people.

"Welcome to the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games!" the Capitol escort says, her voice painfully high. It's unnatural, like the rest of her. She passes the mic to the Mayor who slowly reads the Treaty.

Right when he stops, the escort scurries over to the girls' ball - girls' ball - and slowly and dramatically picks the slip. Her fingers have just barely lifted up the chosen name when a girl screams. Escort drops the paper, startled.

"I VOLUNTEER!"

The voice is soft, strained, impatient, and immature. Ugh. Probably some twelve-year-old who thinks she can easily win.

My eyes gradually find a cute, slightly flushed face pushing through the crowd. I follow her wavy, brunette head until I can make out the rest of her.

_Damn._

She's hot. Wait, no - she's _hot_, like, sizzling, smoking _hot. _Mmm. She's wearing practically nothing - literally. She's got curves. Real ones. Not like any of the Capitol freaks. Hers are small, soft, rounded and defined. Beautiful. Like the rest of her. No way _she's _twelve.

I watch her as she walks up to the platform and bounces up the steps, her giggles echoing softly.

Escort says something that I quickly decide to ignore. Today is _my_ day and I don't need her shrill cries grating against my nerves - not that I'm nervous, of course.

"Shine Fairflight," she announces her name confidently, slightly bemused but not wavering at all.

The escort beams and strides over to the other glass ball. She pauses for dramatic effect and slowly swirls around the slips. She suddenly starts, a foreign expression of belated realization dawning on her much too powdered face. Escort jerkily pulls out the paper and reads it hurriedly, as if recalling...the earlier...incident.

A relaxed looking boy strolls to the platform, looking one-hundred percent sure that he'll be replaced by a volunteer. He's only sixteen and hasn't had nearly enough training to volunteer yet.

My lip involuntarily curls at his undeserved arrogance (I quickly paste on a countenance of indifference which looks so much more flattering on me) and I'm tempted to leave him there. But there are other volunteers of age who _will _volunteer and _steal_ my glory which I've been ever so patiently waiting for. Besides, District One - the highly esteemed District of Luxury - _cannot _be represented by an arrogant little _boy_.

I relax my muscles for a second but tighten and tense them the next, waiting for Escort's shrill cry of "Volunteers!". I will make it. Gilt Goldwater, Victor of the 67th Hunger Games. I will be bigger than Finnick Odair.

" - vo_lun_teerrrrs?"

She emphasizes random syllables and rolls the _r_ exaggeratedly and uses the word as a question, I manage to notices as I spring up and sprint to the stage. I see other people running through the corner of my eyes but keep my eye on the prize: Shine - umm...the escort, I mean. Pure power spreads to every one of my limbs and I can feel my eyes glaze over in that familiar way. I concentrate on going straight and not veering off to the side because I am not in control anymore. The word _freedom_ pops up out of nowhere in my blurred vision and I hear shouts, blaring music, fanfares, and cheering. This honestly pops out of nowhere and I almost break out giggling - laughing. Manly, manly _laughing_ - but somehow suppress it into a smirk.

I faintly hear a startled squeal and the world shifts back and rights itself; the colors abruptly swerving back into place. I drop my pace to a slow jog and make my way up to the stage, practically flying up the steps in exhilaration.

Because -

I.

Made.

It.

Escort's violet eyes - so fake - dart nervously at me.

She should be asking for my name, I realize slowly. "Gilt Goldwater," I say smoothly. Luckily, the relief and plain happiness don't show in my voice but I don't trust it as far as I can throw it. Which I can't. Because it's not possible! ...but there is this poor magician guy who does pointless tricks and _can_...yeah...

I avert my gaze in...excitement...because of me successfully volunteering, of course, and notice Shine glowering at me angrily.

Aww. She's like an angry little puppy that's ferociously growling and barking but actually helpless. I almost smile.

"And I present to you District One's tributes: Shine Fairflight and Gilt Goldwater!"

Ow. I forgot that Escort's standing so close to us. I hope that no one noticed me flinch. Also that surprise didn't spasm weirdly across my face. I really hope that I didn't jump a little. I frown at these possibilities and suddenly notice Shine pouting at me with renewed cuteness.

She randomly grabs at my hand, digging her nails deep into my skin. Uh-oh. I better have not flinched, jumped, or visibly shown surprise this time. I squeeze her hand hard enough to hear a faint, tiny, little, _small_, little, tiny, little, small crack. I flash a quick, sheepish smile at her; she cuts me with something sharp. I glance down at it just long enough to see a single drop of blood sliding to the gray-white platform. _What_ is freaking _wrong _with her? I know over fifty ways to kill her now, weaponless and everything, varying from snapping her neck, to smashing her skull, to rupturing her spleen, to leaving her with enough damage to leave her mentally retarded and that she'd slowly die with no idea of anything. I know over a million ways to injure her and not to kill her, unless without medical treatment over a long period of time. How _dare _she. I will kill her and she will suffer, I vow angrily.

Escort stage-whispers - what a pleasant change - for us to face the audience and smile. Her effort at quietness is wasted because the microphone is still pressed against her lips (and leaving a sticky, gooey yellowish mess of glittery lip gloss on it).

Shine suddenly gasps but I don't spare her a glance or a single ounce of pity. I don't. Not even when I see her too-wide chocolate eyes startled into staring fear and that fake smile plastered on her face (it appeared way too quickly to be real but it's nothing like Escort's impossibly fake smile).


	3. D2: Cloelia Sukie: Marissa

**A/N: This chapter just FLOWED to me, sending mindless streams of creative simplicity. I absolutely _love _District Two (Clato, of course, the cutest couple in the 75th Games [Peeniss, love that ship name, can't hold a candle to it] Enobaria and Brutus are adorable too, obviously) and feel the irrepressible need to do this model District some justice. The next chapter might take a while, but D2 is _my _District which would probably outdo difficulty of writing males. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games trilogy; Suzanne Collins does.**

* * *

Cloelia Sukie

District Two

.

..

...

I scrutinize my reflection almost angrily, feeling my heart pounding against my ribcage in frustrated disappointment. I was never the prettiest thing to grace District Two, never mind the whole of Panem. Dirty blonde hair, and a certain chubbiness that didn't at all match with my eating habits. And my eyes...they were pretty, once upon a time...

As a baby I was abandoned and left on the streets, left to die. A man named Matteo Anan brought me to the local adoption center.

I owed him my life. I was indebted to him enough to sacrifice my life for his. _Was_, I say because I chose the easiest way out of my debt.

I did something unforgivable but my actions are admired by many.

I killed him.

True, I created an innumerable amount of enemies and haters that way but people first began to fear me at the tender age of seven. I was admitted to the training center immediately but I know I did no honorable act. I killed an old, senile man slowly and brutally. After, I gutted him and carefully spelt out the words "_MY DEBT HAS BEEN PAID_" using his intestines and laid it out on the streets for the world to see. I gently placed his mangled corpse next to it and as much as I could salvage from the scattered drops of his blood.

I lost my never-fully-there innocence that night and it shows in my eyes. Hollow, haunted, hating, and haughty. My eyes used to be the prettiest and clearest shade of blue, shining with unshed tears of abandonment. Any and everybody would be forced to pity me. My debts weren't paid after my first. So _unfair_. The Peacekeepers almost died sedating me and were absolutely gleeful to leave me in Brutus' care.

Popular, powerful, and perfectly murderous.

Last week, we held the official choosing for our tributes. I killed, and with everyone's approval, nine other girls; Ron killed just four. He was placed in the later rounds, which are ordered completely random, by the way, and I was luckily in the first. It proves how much stronger I am. He went against the stronger "tributes" first and had less time to warm up but the weaker ones were killed too fast to be considered warm-up. Pathetic, really, seeing how those were supposedly the ten best of each. I guess private individual training just doesn't match up to the Center's standards. Ron and me aren't allowed to talk until today, as tradition dictates. But he's years younger than me, a rich tutored prodigy of some sorts. Spoilt and pampered the whole sixteen years of his delicate little life. He won't stand a chance.

I return to fussing over my appearance until the last possible second to make it to the square.

The orphanage doesn't provide any real necessities, just a dilapidated roof, and random, meals - if they can be called that. Disgustingly repulsive, they are, shining in slime and other nasties. The longest I've ever gone not eating was nearly a month but by that time I was truly desperate. I wasn't old enough to qualify for tesserae at that time. Mealtimes are done spontaneously and without any warning. Once, seven times a single day and more often than not, once a few weeks. There's water, of course, but it tastes _awful_. Metallic, stale, and always _warm_.

So, obviously, it has no beauty products. It has shampoo and soap but even that's the cheap, over-scented flowery kind. I dilute it with water before using. It might not get me squeaky clean, but at least I don't pollute the air with that unnatural stench. There are exactly twenty-nine hairbrushes (because a girl broke one, courtesy of her wild, untamable muddy brown curls) for the many orphans to use. I work with what I have and manage to look like a decent lower part of the upper class of District Two, clean and smelling...flowery pleasant in a dyed black mini dress. The orphanage, of course, provides some washed out, once-bright dresses for the girls and some acceptable looking shorts for the guys. They've holey sweaters that don't look too bad with their shirts tucked in, hanging a little over their shorts. These clothes are practically required because the majority of us are going into the Games, volunteer or not.

* * *

The mayor, a stout and pleasantly plump woman, clears her throat and steps up to the podium, quickly buzzing through the Treaty of Treason and the skipping the pretense of pleasantries. She's nice like that, very impatient. I can tell she doesn't care about anything other than her position. Rigidly uptight when Capitol guests come over and sloth lazy whenever else. Peacekeepers usually ignore her completely and take matters in their own hands. Because of Training, they're stationed practically everywhere while the mayor pigs out at her mansion. She's a sweet dictator.

"He_ll_o and welcome the annual Sixty-seventh Hunger Games!" Dottie Dimple, a Capitol freak with a permanent dimple drilled in her high, high, fake cheekbone shouts while somehow managing to keep her "calm" smile in place. She prances to the mayor and takes the whole stage, beaming at the crowds. Dottie takes pride in announcing her newly memorized list of our District's Victors in her grating voice; just promoted last year. "I'm so glad to see you all here. Ahem." She takes the long way around the stage and finally is at the corner where the girls' ball is meticulously placed. Dottie has to walk in a full circle to get from one orb to the other. She loves her attention. "Raylene Landry."

A prim little girl delicately walks from the fifteens' to the stage, her chin raised high. Upper-class snob. Her pale, soft hands are folded serenely, a polite smile gracing her snooty little face. Ugh. It would be so _satisfying_ to watch her die, but she has three more years and this is my last. She would truly be a disgrace to my District.

I roll back my shoulders and straighten my back self-consciously. I'm pretty enough. I've certainly had enough boyfriends to prove that.

"Would anyone like to take Miss Landry's place?"

I step forward, already close the front of the line. The crowds all part for me, their heads slightly tilted downwards in respect. I slowly make my way to the stage, a furious scowl painted on my face.

"Cloelia Sukie," I breathe into the mic, shoved into my face.

Dottie stupidly smiles and shoos Raylene down while tugging my arm up, as if helping me up the final steps.

How stupid can a person be? Even if this is only her second year, Dottie should be aware that all volunteers killed at least ten people to get to their spot.

Raylene daintily raises a hand to her mouth but I can still hear her tittering laugh echoing because of the stone buildings. It takes all of my barely existent self-control to keep from lunging at her.

Instead, I allow myself to crush the escort's wrist; the _snap! _heard throughout the whole District. Every single person is holding their breath and frozen in place as Dottie's face turns an ugly shade of purple.

Her outraged scream promptly jerks Raylene into motion, who all but runs back to her line. She somehow looks poised and practiced while doing it too.

Dottie, stiff as a board, slowly walks to the other orb. I bet she regrets putting it so far away now.

"Dieter Ackman," she says, possessing the arrogance of royalty. Her nose is stuck so high up the birds could perch on it.

"Any volunteers?" Dottie shrills, losing the pretense of icy hatred. Her violet eyes are shining with something much different now, insanity. I don't remember ever hearing her voice so..._crazed_ before.

A path clears for the rich little prodigy. His face is a solemn, blank mask. Ron isn't much for intimidation, I note disdainfully.

"My name is Andronicus Nolan and I volunteer as a tribute in the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games."

Well. I guess his voice takes care of that. Low, deep, and...well, intimidating.

The anthem bursts out, full volume, and I look down, briefly startled.

His hands are shaking.

Not so perfect now are you?

We look up at the same time, the tension palpable. He raises a tentative hand to mine, probably trying to remind me of the tradition. Dottie is still furious; she won't even spare me a glance. I almost leave him hanging there, hand in the air and all. But it won't look good if there seems to be disunity between a District, especially one as powerful as Two.

He keeps his gaze perfectly blank as I shake his cold, sweaty hand.

Proof that he is nervous, that I wasn't imagining things.

He can't have been up against very strong opponents, but then again, neither was I.

* * *

**I love how complex and twisted I made Cloelia to be. You? Or maybe she's too OOC...? (((Puh-_lease_ review me? I did say please...))) **


	4. D2: Andronicus Nolan: Andrew

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games trilogy; Suzanne Collins does.**

* * *

Andronicus Nolan

District Two

.

..

...

"Congratulations," a faceless boy whispers, shell-shocked.

_It's nothing to be proud of_, I want to say. I'm weak, I know it and I'm ashamed to pretend otherwise. I nod half-heartedly it and mutter a quick thank-you.

"I want to be just like you when I grow up," the faceless child grins at me. "Father says I'm brilliant. He says I'd better be because I have the best tutors in all of Panem. I'm learning to fight now. Mother doesn't approve, of course, but I already am better, education-wise, than all the other kids my age. I'll volunteer when I'm seventeen, like you. I'll defeat all my opponents quickly and savagely and I won't even grace their undeserving bodies with a single glance when I'm done! I'll kill them all and be a Victor. You will mentor me, won't you? I mean it won't really matter because I'm strong but it would be -"

"_Shut up_," I finally growl, closing my eyes and walking away.

"I'm sorry!" It catches up with me, worried tears barely held back by sheer determination in its green eyes. _Green eyes_. "I didn't mean to -"

"Get away from me. I never want to see your pitiful face again." It hurts to see the pretense of bravery abruptly shattered and the tears dripping out of his _green _eyes.

"I..."

"Get away," I whisper, dropping my hand to the hilt of my sword threateningly.

"You're bluffing!" The boy uselessly shoves his red - _red_ - bangs out of his green eyes and uses a pale hand to cling to my arm. "You're _good_. I want to be like you. You would never..."

"You don't know me," I state coldly, cutting a superficial, but long gash on his arm.

"Yes!" He gasps breathlessly, excitement shining in his earnest, green eyes. "I can prove it, too! Father took me to every one of your battles! Just ask him!"

"How old are you, boy?" I regret the question as soon as it leaves my lips but I can't take it back.

"Nine, almost ten. I _can_ fight, I'll prove it!"

"You haven't seen all of my battles. Not the ones that mattered the most." I crisscross the gash with another one. "You wouldn't stand a chance."

"No. You're wrong."

I press the blade to his neck, hearing him breathing in quickly, in panicked gasps. Each breath drives the tip slightly deeper in his throat. "You don't know me at all." I remove my sword and leave the boy standing there.

"You're just scared! I saw your face after you won! You're just a coward. You looked like you were going to cry! Were you? I'll kill like you and win like you, but I won't ever _be_ you; I don't want to be."

To think I felt sorry for him. Without looking back, I toss back a throwing knife, assured of my accuracy.

"You missed!" He cries out gleefully, the knife deeply embedded in his shoulder.

I wasn't aiming to kill him. Three inches down, it would've pierced his heart, three inches to the right, it would've gone through his neck.

* * *

The mayor clears her throat and steps up to the podium, quickly speed-reading through the Treaty of Treason and retreating back to her seat. Impatient and unprofessional. She doesn't deserve her position. She pretends to have everything under control whenever Capitol people come over, when in reality, the Peacekeepers do her job. They're stationed practically everywhere while the mayor hides.

"He_ll_o and welcome to the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games!" Dottie Dimple squeals, her surgically implanted dimple dancing across her drawn-up and pointed cheekbones. I watch it in morbid fascination.

She prances to the mayor and takes the whole stage, beaming at the crowds. Dottie proudly reads her long list of our District's Victors; just promoted last year. "I'm so glad to see you all here. Ahem." She takes the long way around the stage and finally is at the corner where the girls' ball is placed. Her butt jiggles when she walks. I watch that too. Dottie has to walk in a full circle to get from one orb to the other. "Raylene Landry."

A little girl delicately walks from the fifteens' to the stage, her chin raised high. I know her sister, Felecia Landry. Bossy brat, Raylene is.

Felecia's two years older than me, a real sweetheart. She's a bit puzzling, greedy to the extreme, but the sweetest thing. Lecia hates me but she has the decency to put up an indifferent front. She loves her attention, like all other girls. She hates chocolates, adores lavenders and bubbles. Flattery will get you nowhere, the little bitch. Lecia is engaged, an arranged marriage. She pretends to be so thrilled that it takes all her self-control to keep from smiling. She's a great liar. No matter how hard she tries to push me out of her life, she knows it won't work. She's falling to pieces but is too proud to admit that. The most I can do is to cheer her up. I love her. I fell out love when I was eleven; I only fell in love with her looks. Lecia loves me too, even if she never says; I'm her "annoying stalker," after all.

"Would anyone like to take Miss Landry's place?" Dottie trills, her high-pitched, accented voice ringing through the quiet air.

I look up at Cloelia interestedly; Lecia always said she would never speak to someone like Cloelia. Cloelia would probably say the same to her. Their personalities absolutely _clash_, not to mention their ranks. Raylene is the cuter, bolder, and bossier of the two sisters. Felecia is the reasonable, poised, and perfect one. They're both pretty demanding, I'll admit, but Lecia actually has something to back up her words while Raylene doesn't. Both are reasonably rich but blackmail and bribery only go so far. Lecia has _connections_. She can make the whole town turn against you if she wants. She knows every single poison in the world and has access to them all, even the rarest. She has a gorgeous body that she has no qualms about using. She can handle a silver, jeweled dagger that's nearly twice as long as her effortlessly.

"Cloelia Sukie," Cloelia hisses out her name, wearing an expression of pure disgust. She's easier to read then she likes to think.

Dottie smiles, fluttering her hand at Raylene as if swatting at a fly.

I almost laugh. Raylene is indignant and horrified but her emotions are carefully disguised as polite serenity. Her lips are curled up in a fake smile and her hands are re-folded on her lap. She's going down the steps now and if you didn't personally know her, you'd never even notice the expression of hatred hidden in her dark brown eyes. When she raises her hand to stifle a mocking laugh, I notice a similar expression in Cloelia's blue eyes.

And then, she completely loses it. Cloelia _snarls _at Raylene, teeth and all, and for a quick second, I'm afraid that she'll attack her. I sneak a glance at Felecia, astonished because she's gone shades paler and her mouth is hanging open. The Lecia I know would _never_, not even in death, would display a single genuine emotion to anyone. I stare at her for a moment longer and then look back at the stage.

Oh. That's all I can think for about a minute. The surprise and disbelief on my face is probably making my expression blank, which doesn't at all hurt my chosen persona. Because Raylene Landry, prissy and elegant, is bolting back to her line and almost quivering in startled amazement. Because Dottie Dimple - newly promoted Capitol escort from the Capitol who is loved by most Capitolians living in the Capitol where President Snow lives _in the Capitol _- has a limp, twisted and bruising hand cradled to her chest. Cloelia has a smug smirk firmly in place as Dottie storms to the other Reaping Ball. Stupid. Unbelievably _stupid_.

"Dieter Ackman," Dottie reads stiffly, dropping the slip to the floor. "Any volunteers?" she screeches out, impatient.

I hurriedly perfect my indifference and walk up to the platform, biting back the urge to run. I hate their stares. I hate how they appreciate me for who I'm _not_. I hate how they think they know me but don't.

I curl my hands into steady fists. "My name is Andronicus Nolan and I volunteer as a tribute in the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games."

I turn to face the crowds, keeping my eyes glazed over and unseeing. The anthem suddenly blares out and my hands instinctively reach for something to grab at. There is nothing but air. I look down at them in frustration and feel a prickle of unease. Someone's watching me and she's not in the crowd. Cloelia. I catch her gaze and she stares back, her expression unreadable. I remember not to blink but my eyes involuntarily drift down at her hands. Automatically, I lift my hand slowly to hers, trying to silently remind her to shake. It's been a tradition for as long as I can remember, maybe even required.

Cloelia stiffens but manages to stop herself from pulling back. I can see the gears turning inside her head - she really has to work on that - as she contemplates her choice. She finally raises her hand and shakes mine meaningfully. It's all for a show of unity.

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**A/N: Another unrealistically quick update. The next chapter will come easily - guess why - and maybe the one after. The first half of Four will be easy, the second half not so much; Five, Six, Eight, Ten will be hard; Eleven in the middle; Seven, Nine and Twelve will be easy. After the first 22 chapters - ooh, a _lot_ - everything will ridiculously easy if I stay in the mood.**

**Reviews would be _amazing_...**


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